Great-Grandma Irene Donahue, a dazzling dish from County Mead, she set men on fire, making their women pea-green. James, an English church going man, her charms flamed under his skin. He brought her home to America, and introduced her to his kin. I wish I could have seen their faces, prim and proper, I am sure. Great-Grandpa had gotten much more than he bargained for. After marriage and a few children, she would settle down, folks would think. Then, humming an Irish bar song she would suddenly dance a wicked jig. Since I was knee high, her fascinating legend grew. She had a way of telling stories that caused a blush or two. When she was in her eighties, she would whisper in Dad's ear, "Carl, take me down to the tavern" the lone lady, she loved male attention there. Her daughters were ashamed. They thought mother was a joke. Dad said she was a special lady, and the rest were uptight folk. I sure wish I had known her. A picture is all I have. Though 'tis black and white, look closely for Irish dancing eyes. |
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| Irish Dancing Eyes |